Are We Toast?

Did you get sprayed? Did the crop dusters buzz over your head last night, dumping their derring-do on the mosquitos? On the spray map, it looks like they just missed my house—theoretically (though I did hear the planes). One wonders how many of us are "toast"—is it really just the hapless mosquitos?

Enough editorializing. We need some whimsy. Here are some poems about toast from The New Oxford Book of Children's Verse.


THE TOASTER
—William Jay Smith

A silver-scaled Dragon with jaws flaming red
Sits at my elbow and toasts my bread.
I hand him fat slices, and then, one by one,
He hands them back when he sees they are done.


THREE LITTLE GHOSTESSES
—Anonymous, English

Three little ghostesses
Sitting on postesses,
Eating buttered toastesses,
Greasing their fistesses,
Up to the wristesses,
Oh, what beastesses
To make such feastesses!


POEM ON BREAD
—Vernon Scannell

The poet is about to write a poem;
He does not use a pencil or a pen.
He dips his long, thin finger into jam
Or something savoury preferred by men.
This poet does not choose to write on paper;
He takes a single slice of well-baked bread
And with his jam or marmite-nibbed forefinger
He writes his verses down on that instead.
His poem is fairly short as all the best are.
When he has finished it he hopes that you
Or someone else—your brother, friend or sister—
Will read and find it marvelous and true.
If you can't read, then eat: it tastes quite good.
If you do neither, all that I can say
Is he who needs no poetry or bread
Is really in a devilish bad way.

_______________________

Here's hoping your poems today are written in jam, or something else savoury...

—Medusa

Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry and announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets.